Lydia watched it all, and then joined him for their breakfast, although neither of them ate very much.
Afterward she got dressed, and they repacked their bags and Carter’s ski equipment.
“What happens now?” she asked. “I cannot remain here like this.”
“No,” Carter said. “You’re going to Munich. Then back to the States.”
“I won’t be able to cross the frontier. I have no passport.”
“You’ll be met,” Carter said. “At Scharnitz. Do you know where it is?”
She nodded. “On the way back to Garmisch-Partenkirchen,” she said. “But how?”
“You’ll see,” Carter said.
They left their room and went downstairs to the lobby, Carter’s right hand in his jacket pocket, his fingers curled around the grip of his Luger.
The desk clerk said nothing as Carter signed his charge slip and checked out.
“Is the car ready to take me skiing?” Carter asked.
“Of course, sir, but I thought...” the clerk said, flustered. After hearing reports of the American’s overindulgence the night before, he was amazed to see him standing this early, let alone ready to ski.
Carter grinned. “I’m meeting an old friend on the slopes. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said. “I’ll have the car brought around immediately.”
Carter figured the clerk was very likely in Kobelev’s employ.
The Killmaster and Lydia crossed the lobby, and a couple of minutes later the hotel car, a Mercedes 300D, pulled up outside. The driver, a tall, very husky young man with blond hair, jumped out and helped them with their bags.
They headed away from the hotel, and when they were down on the main highway that led over to Axamer, Carter ordered the driver to turn around and make a stop in Innsbruck first.
“Sir?” the driver asked, glancing up into the rearview mirror and not slowing down.
“Innsbruck,” Carter said. He pulled out Wilhelmina and laid the end of the barrel against the base of the driver’s skull. He too probably worked for Kobelev.
“Yes, sir,” the man said. A hundred yards down the road he pulled around, and they hurried back into town.
He directed the driver to pull up in front of the train station, and then he handed his Luger to Lydia. “Hold him for a couple of minutes. I’ll get your tickets.”
“Don’t leave me,” Lydia protested.
“I’ll just be a minute,” Carter said, and he jumped out of the car, went inside, and angled directly over to the telephones.
He placed a call to Charlie Mann in Munich. “Do you know who this is?”
“Jesus H. Christ, you’re the last person I figured I’d hear from today. All hell is breaking loose down here.”
“How fast can you get to Scharnitz with a passport for a woman named Lydia Borasova? Blond. Pretty. Russian.”
There was silence on the line for a moment or two.
“Three hours tops. She hot?”
“Very. I want her back in D.C. as soon as possible. Call Smitty. He’ll know what to do with her.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t ask. Just get to Scharnitz as fast as possible. She’ll be waiting on the Austrian side in the beer garden.”
“Will do,” Mann said, and Carter hung up.
Back outside, he climbed into the car, took the Luger from Lydia, and ordered the driver to take them over to the university.
Keeping his hands out of sight of the driver, Carter carefully passed the rental car’s keys to Lydia, making sure she could see the tag that described the car and gave its license plate number. He mouthed the single word Scharnitz. She nodded.
They got to the university, and the driver pulled over to the curb. Carter embraced Lydia and whispered, “Car’s in the back lot. A friend named Charlie Mann will be waiting for you at the beer garden. Good luck.”
When they parted, Carter glanced at the driver, then back to Lydia. “Your train leaves in a couple of hours. You can stay here at the university, in the library, until then. You’ll be safe.”
She nodded again. “Have a good day skiing.”
“Sure,” Carter said.
Lydia got out of the car and hurried into the university. The driver watched her go, his eyes narrowed.
“Now it’s time for the slopes,” Carter said. “Axamer.”
The driver glanced at Carter’s reflection in the mirror, then pulled away from the curb, back the way they had come.
Twenty minutes later they had turned off the highway and followed the road back up to Axamer, higher up in the mountains.
Around a large curve, they came to the sports complex where in 1964 and again in 1976 the winter Olympics had been held.
There were quite a few cars in the vast parking lot despite the fact that the ski season hadn’t really begun yet. But the recent heavy snowfalls had helped speed things up.
Carter pocketed his Luger as they pulled up to the main building, and the driver turned around to him.
“Listen to me, for what it’s worth,” Carter said. “I’m getting out here. I want you to turn around and drive directly back to the hotel. If I see you again, for whatever reason, I will kill you immediately. No questions, no arguments, I will kill you. Do you understand?”
The young man swallowed hard, his earlier confidence gone under the direct threat. “Yes, sir.”
“Fine,” Carter said, and he climbed out of the car, got his things from the trunk, then without looking back went into the main building. He bought an all-day, all-slopes lift ticket and went outside.
After standing his skis and poles in one of the racks, he put on his ski boots, then walked up onto the balcony where he took a table near the railing and ordered himself a coffee and schnapps.
The overcast had lifted somewhat, although it looked as if it might snow again at any moment. Rising above were the magnificent slopes of the Austrian Alps. From where he sat he could see quite a few skiers descending in zigzag patterns, the lifts rising up into the sky, and off to the west the village with its private, very expensive chalets.
This then, at last, was the killing ground. Today was the killing day. Somewhere very near were Kobelev and his goons. And very probably Ganin, too.
His coffee came, and he sipped it as he smoked a cigarette and watched the skiers rise up on the chair lifts and then descend the slopes.
Ski conditions were wonderful for this early, and there was a festive, holiday mood at the lodge.
Carter stiffened and sat forward. Seventy-five yards away, at the chair lift entry point, a tall, well-built man was getting aboard a chair. It was Ganin. Carter was sure of it.
The chair took off, and Ganin turned around and looked directly at Carter. He waved, and then the lift seemed to accelerate upward.
Carter threw down a twenty-shilling note, hurried off the balcony, quickly put on his skis, and skied over to the chair lift entry point.
He was only fourth in line, and within three minutes of sighting Ganin, he was on a chair going up into the mountains.
On the way up he lifted his skis and checked his bindings to make sure they were set for extremely stiff conditions, then he pulled out Wilhelmina to make sure she was ready to fire.
Ganin, he kept thinking. The man was absolutely incredible. Without a doubt one of the very best Carter had ever gone up against in his long career. Between Ganin’s abilities and Kobelev’s perverse genius, they were an awesome force.
The chair lift followed the slope up at an extreme angle. At times the chair was two hundred feet above the mountainside, while at other times it dropped to treetop level.
Within a few minutes the lodge was lost below in the mist. The chair rose up over the top of a tower, then started to dip down again, closer to the steeply sloping ground.